“Didn’t I just see you in that detective’s office?” she asked.
“I didn’t think you noticed,” he said. “But I saw you.”
“Are you a reporter?”
He considered the possibilities of the role for an instant.
“No.”
“Are you connected with the police?”
Intuition, which had been whispering to him, raised its voice to a sure command. At this moment, in this situation, with this girl, the truth would gain him more than any fiction.
“My name is Simon Templar.”
“The Saint.”
She was one of those people whom he met all too seldom, who could hear his name and recognize its connotation without gasping, swooning, or recoiling, and at first, he was glad to see, she received it even without fear. “The Saint,” she said, looking at him with no more than ordinary curiosity, and then the fear barely began to stir in her eyes.